David Spencer, Private Eye, and the Case of the Town without Pity

David Spencer is hired for a domestic job in the small town of Riverside.

Riverside. I hate Riverside.

Riverside was only two hours east of Babylon, it sat on the coastline and there was a river. The river flowed west, dumping into the ocean, and was located on the north side of the small town. Riverside wasn’t known for much. The only thing that ever placed Riverside on the map was a quiet, young man named Jason Richard Wright. A quiet, young man who did horrible things to innocent, young women.

Riverside was a small community with typical community values. There were three churches and everyone was affiliated with one, but only one had a daycare. The 7th Day Adventists had a daycare and everyone used it, despite their affiliations. The main common denominator among most religious sects is hypocrisy. Riverside was no exception to this rule.

Joanne Mildred entered my office and told me a wail of a tale, “Mr. Spencer, I’m here because my sister, Dorothy Mildred, spoke highly of your professionalism.”

Dorothy Mildred had thought she had a husband on the loose, she thought right of his looseness but nothing prepared her for how loose his looseness loosened. With my assistance she divorced the scum and got the goods, too.

“Mr. Spencer,” Joanne hung her head, feeling the pressure we all do when we have to say dirty things, “I—well…”

“Just start in the beginning, Ms. Mildred,” I explained, trying to make it a little easier.

“I work at the 7th Day Adventist daycare,” suddenly she had a bit of confidence, “Though, I am a devote Catholic, so don’t get me wrong.”

“Ms. Mildred,” I started, “I don’t care if you’re a vampire, I’m not inclined to develop opinions.”

“Well, vampires don’t exist,” she remarked, rolling eyes and smiling a bit.

“You’re not a resident of Babylon, are you?”

“Why?”

“Never mind, Ms. Mildred, continue.”

“Yes, I was saying,” her countenance fell again, here come the dirty things, “I went to work for the daycare and I started noticing things that weren’t right. For instance Barbra, who keeps charge over the daycare, was very harsh in dealing with the children.”

Without looking up from the notes I was taking, “Define harsh.”

“She hits the children,” she answered without hesitation.

“Define hit.”

She became a bit annoyed and spoke accordingly, “I don’t know, she hits them. Strikes, smacks, beats—hit!”

I looked up to her calmly and explained, “I’m doing you a favor here.”

She simmered some, “Sorry.”

“When she hits the children does she use a fist or an open palm? What areas of the body does she strike and in which manner? Does she do it with great force or gently?”

She looked to me, tears building up in her eyes, “Sometimes with fists, sometimes with palms or with a hair brush, a stick or broom. She’ll strike any part of the body and she never does it gently.”

I caught up to her in my notes, “Is this everything or is there more?”

“Yes, there is more,” she was staring in a daze, remembering all the things worth mentioning, “She’ll neglect the babies. If she gets mad at a baby, she won’t feed it. Then the baby will cry and she’ll grow angrier with it. Sometimes she won’t feed any of the kids, just as a generic punishment to everyone. There was one time I saw her toss an eight-month old baby into a crib.”

“Define toss.”

She looked to me and I to her, she raised her left hand and made a grip, “She grabbed the baby’s leg like this and carried it to the crib and tossed it like thus,” she pulled her gripped hand across her chest near her right shoulder, for momentum, and made a tossing motion towards myself.

“Are you finished?” I asked.

“I think so,” she said, still searching in her mind.

“If you think of anything else in the future, just call me, Ms. Mildred. You don’t have to know everything now.”

“Thank you, Mr. Spencer,” she sighed; I could see a burden was lifted, “So what are you going to do?”

“What I can, Ms. Mildred,” I turned to a blank page in my notepad, “Where is this daycare located?”

“On the corner of 2nd street, in Riverside.”

“Riverside?”

“Yes,” she started, “Is this a problem?”

“I work and live in Babylon, Ms. Mildred,” I reasoned, “Riverside is a good two hour drive away.”

“I came to you, because I needed someone I could trust and Dorothy trusted you, so therefore I trust you.”

“That’s no way to decide whether someone is trustworthy or not, Ms. Mildred,” I paused for a moment, “I’ll do it, but you realize this will raise my price some. For gas, food and lodgings and such.”

“I’m prepared for that, Mr. Spencer,” she said, “I understand.”

“Alright, Ms. Mildred,” I rose to shake her hand, “I’ll make arrangements, so that I can get to Riverside this week.”

She was smiling, tears were escaping her eye lids, “Mr. Spencer, I can’t begin to express how—”

“Don’t,” I interrupted, “Don’t thank me until it’s over.”

Riverside. How I hate Riverside. When I got to Riverside, it was raining. The clouds were darkly gray, making the midday seem like midnight. The wind was furious and ferocious. I drove past the local convenient store, also known as the only grocery store in Riverside. Standing just inside were old men, gazing out at the sky and the rain. One held his newspaper, interrupted by the storm from his read. Another looked down to me driving by and squinted at me, not very approvingly I might add.

Miserable small town cronies. A stranger passes through and suddenly it’s the end of the world.

I pulled up to Riverside Bed and Breakfast; the lights were glowing orange in the Victorian stylized house. I reached over my seat and into the back to grab my briefcase and suitcase. All I would need to accomplish this job was in these two cases.

I ran through the rain to the front door of the bed and breakfast, the door opened when I reached it and I entered the foyer.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the woman holding the door remarked; she closed it once I was completely inside, “Let me take your coat and hat, sir.”

She took my hat and coat with her frigid, wrinkled pale hands and hung them near the door, “They’ll be here, sir, should you need them.”

“I need a room, ma’am.”

“For how long, sir?”

“It is undetermined at this time, ma’am.”

“Understood,” she pointed to a front desk adjacent the staircase, “Come, let me sign you in and you can sign out when you want.”

She walked to the desk, removing a white apron from her white and blue dress. It looked like Alice had left Wonderland and aged about forty or fifty years; hair gray, skin hanging from the bones, face like a robot. This was a sign of a woman who had seen it all, but there were also obvious anger indents in her brow and cheeks. She carried herself like she was wise and experienced in Life Lessons, but her wrinkles indicated to me that she was a drama queen. I signed and dated her book.

She spun the book around and read it, “Mr. Spencer, you can have the first room on the second floor and on the right. If you need anything and can’t find me, just call out for Alice. That’s my name.”

It was painfully ironic. I had to fight back laughter, so I thanked her and retreated upstairs. In my room, that had no lock on the door, it looked ridiculously homey. Too homey. I hate the homey look, because the homey look is the look of what my grandma thinks looks absolutely wonderful. And homey is the way your home should look, she thinks. I grabbed the rotary phone near the bed, reached into my pocket and pulled out Joanne Mildred’s phone number.

“I’m in Riverside, Ms. Mildred,” I told her, “Where’s the church?”

She gave me the address and I replied, “I’ll go out when the rain lets up.”

“They let the children out of the daycare at five fifteen,” she said.

“If I can’t make it today,” I started, “I’ll start with the sheriff. Where’s the sheriff’s office?”

The rain never let up, I entered the sheriff’s office and flung as much of the water from my overcoat in the entry way as possible before removing it. My hat and overcoat I hung on a rack in the entry, than I approached the front desk. A woman of about thirty-something, possibly pushing forty. Glasses, blond hair held up in a bun. She couldn’t look any more secretarial if her life had depended upon it. She had the enthusiasm of a cow,

“State your purpose, sir,” she stated without looking up from her magazine.

“David Spencer, Private Investigator, ma’am,” I started, “I need to speak with the sheriff.”

“He’s out.”

“When does he get back, ma’am?”

“Any minute now, have a seat, sir,” she never looked up from her magazine.

I sat alright. I sat for four hours, occasionally noting to the lady my dissatisfaction with the scenario, but she was too absorbed in the glamour of those in her magazine to care. Within the fourth hour, he finally arrived. He walked through the door, removed his hat, coat and muddy shoes. He came in laughing,

“Darlene, that was quite a mess,” he spoke to the woman behind the desk with smile on his face.

“A Private Eye to see you,” Darlene responded.

“Oh,” he turned to me, “Hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

“Four hours.”

“Well, sorry about that, but Fred McAllister’s pride Angus had got out the pasture again,” he motioned for me to follow him and we continued through a doorway, down a small hall and into his office, “Those cows got minds of their own. The rain didn’t help none either, that’s for sure. Have a seat.”

After he sat and repositioned a couple of papers, like that was going to make his disorganized office more professional, he looked to me with that grin and asked, “What can I do you for?”

“The name is David Spencer, I am a private investigator, and I’ve been hired on the pretense that the local daycare is guilty of child abuse and negligence.”

“Well, that’s just awful,” he grabbed his phone, “I know those guys down there, let me just give them a call and see if they know anything about this—”

“Are you stupid?” I’m not always the most tactful person in the world, “Hang that phone up.”

His mouth was wide open when he placed the phone back, “What?”

“Sheriff, what would you need for a warrant, an arrest, a case?”

“Well, um, Mr. Spencer, I suppose photographs of the abuse or negligence would be sufficient,” he was obviously making it all up as he went; he’d never handled anything more serious than Angus.

“Alright, then,” I said, “I’ll come back with photographs.”

I rose to my feet and he stopped me at the door, “Well, that is if there is abuse.”

“Naturally.”

He laughed, nervously this time, “Naturally.”

The next morning the rain had let up, but the sky was still full of clouds and gloom. The 7th Day Adventist church in Riverside had two buildings adjacent each other, one was the church and the other was the daycare. I parked my car at a filling station and came to the back of the daycare, looking into the windows. It didn’t take long before I had plenty of pictures to take. I snapped a picture of Barbra beating a toddler with a broom, as the toddler tried to get away. I got a picture of her mishandling a baby, carrying the infant by its leg and plopping it in a playpen. Eventually, I ran out of film in my camera.

I made a rash decision and walked into the church, lucky me there were men gathered in the chapel sitting and discussing business. I walked right up the aisle to them and they stopped speaking when they saw me.

“Morning, gentlemen,” I spoke, my camera hanging about my neck, “David Spencer, Private Investigator.”

“Good morning,” one man spoke up, a huge smile upon his face and his attitude primed, “What can we do for you, Mr. Spencer?”

I sat on the front pew; they were gathered around a table in folding chairs in front of the pulpit, I crossed my legs and began to explain, “Well, gentlemen, you have an abusive and neglecting woman running your daycare.”

That smile faded.

The men looked at each other, puzzled though maintaining a stern interest to the situation; the same man spoke up, “Mr. Spencer, that is quite an accusation.”

“I’m aware.”

“Do you have proof of this accusation, Mr. Spencer?”

“Absolutely,” I held my camera up, “Right here, in this camera, I have pictures of the issue at hand. I’m going to develop the pictures and turn them over to the police. What I would like to see from you all is to relieve Barbra from her position immediately, for the sake of the children.”

They looked to each other again; an elderly man leaned in to the main speaker and whispered something. After a moment of whispers amongst themselves, the main speaker spoke up, “Can you give us a moment to discuss this matter? Just step outside the door.”

I sat in the foyer and I could hear that there was some heated dispute, though I couldn’t make out the words. Eventually, the tone died down and little was said amongst the men and eventually I heard footfalls coming and a young man showed me back inside.

They were all looking to me with a positive look as if inviting, trying to win me over. I sat back on the front pew and they all moved in around me with their chairs, the elderly man spoke up, “We are hesitant to believe your accusations against Barbra, Mr. Spencer. You have yet to provide any proof of such accusations.”

“Maybe, but it can’t hurt to play it safe until the air is cleared?” I looked the elderly man in the eyes, “For the sake of the kids, you know—if I am right.”

The elderly man cleared his throat and approached again, “Since Barbra has been here, the numbers at the daycare have gone up. And, the children have become more disciplined and seem to get along with another and the staff more. Surely these facts speak to Barbra’s methods; she must be doing something right.”

I leaned in towards the elderly man, staring into his eyes, “Shall I beat you into submission to make a point?”

“Mr. Spencer,” he started, “There is no need for threats.”

“It wasn’t a threat, it was a question,” I leaned back, “I thought maybe you guys didn’t understand the basic concepts of abuse. Thought maybe you could use an example.”

The younger man who was keen to doing most of the speaking leaned in towards me with a stern, serious look on his face, “Mr. Spencer, how much are those pictures worth to you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Name a price,” he cleared his throat, “A price you’d be willing to sell that film for. And, how much would it take for you to drop this.”

I must admit, it was humorous and I was beyond the point of caring what these men thought of me—I laughed. I laughed loud, long and heartily, “No—I don’t want your blood money. I’m not gonna be you’re monkey. I mean, do you hear yourselves? Do you really, seriously hear yourselves? Because I don’t think you do. I’m curious to come to church this Sunday; I’m truly curious to now how far your hypocrisy reaches.”

“Mr. Spencer,” the main speaker started, “You’re mocking us. Name your price.”

I stood up, looked at every face present and said my final piece, “Mark my words, you will burn for this day.”

I left the 7th Day Adventists and my wonderful first impression behind, made my way to the local photograph developer. I had lunch at the local diner and watched all the curious repeats. A funny bunch of characters. After an hour of sitting in the diner, I went back to get my pictures, feeling confident these thugs were sunk.

“WHAT?!”

The nervous young man behind the counter spoke to me softly, “The pictures didn’t come out, sir.”

“Let me see these pictures,” I demanded, “There has to be some good pictures in there. I had perfect lighting conditions.”

“No, sir,” he cleared his throat, “You don’t understand. The machine ate them. They’re destroyed.”

I thought for a moment, “But you still have the film roll I gave you?”

“No, it went with the machine, too.”

“What kinda sham you running, kid?!”

“Sir, could you keep it down.”

“Wait a minute,” I huffed, “Where do you go on Sunday, kid?”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“Church, kid—where do you go?”

He knew he was caught. He looked down at his counter, shuffled some papers and mumbled, “7th Day Adventist.”

“So, did they call you? Or was this wonderful idea your own, kid?”

“Sir, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”

I pounded the counter with my right fist, then shoved my index finger in his face, “Give me your manager, kid!”

“I am the manager,” he didn’t like my finger much, so he gained some confidence in anger, “Get out.”

“You’re sunk, kid.”

At the sheriff’s office, I was made to wait while the local hero took a phone call. He eventually came out and greeted me, “This way, Mr. Spencer. Sorry for the wait.”

In his office I sat down and began to speak, but he interrupted me, “The church has taken a restraining order out on you, Mr. Spencer.”

“Okay, in what capacity?”

“You can’t come within six hundred yards of the church premises, Mr. Spencer,” he explained, then shifted gears, “Did you get your pictures, Mr. Spencer?”

I knew he knew more than he led me on to believe. He was knee deep in the filth.

“Funny you should mention that, your local retard at the 1-hour photo shop destroyed the evidence,” I took out a notepad, on which I had taken notes of all the different illegal activities that had taken place, “But I saw plenty—”

“Without physical evidence, Mr. Spencer, I’m afraid I can’t do anything.”

I looked to him, my notepad dangling in my hand, “When did you become a detective? Look, I don’t have pictures and I can’t go back because of this restraining order. But, I guarantee those kids have bruises and cuts and all manner of physical evidence on their bodies.”

He leaned across his desk, a firm reprimanding look on his face, “I will not allow you to bother the good folk of Riverside, knocking on doors and asking hurtful questions and wanting to see their children’s bodies.”

Feeling the intimidation from all corners of the town and not liking it, I leaned to him, “No, I don’t plan on doing that. That’s your job.”

He leaned away from the desk, realizing I don’t fold under pressure, “Well, you’re crazy if you think I’m gonna start some silly witch hunt, Mr. Spencer.”

Flipping through my notepad, I remarked, “Where I come from we call it an investigation, but to each his own I guess.”

“Here’s the way I see it, Mr. Spencer. Leave the church alone, leave the people alone and leave Riverside. I’m giving you until noon tomorrow,” he leaned back across that desk of his, “I’m not playing with you, Mr. Spencer,” he must have seen my smirk, “If I see you within a mile of the church, I’ll arrest you. If I see you talking to any of the locals, I’ll arrest you. If I see you tomorrow at 12:01, I’ll arrest you. Get my drift, Mr. Spencer? You’re investigation is over.”

“How much was it worth, Sheriff?” I looked up from my notepad and into his eyes; they darted to the wall or somewhere else behind me. He couldn’t look me in the eyes, “I hope it was worth it.”

Sitting outside Joanne Mildred’s house, I tried to gather my thoughts. I wasn’t quite sure how to explain it. I figured she’d have a hard time understanding and accepting anything I could say. It didn’t matter how sugarcoated I tried to make it, how much I dumbed it down to her method of thinking. Mrs. Mildred was not going to get it and was not going to take it well.

She didn’t take it well. She didn’t get it.

Back at the Bed and Breakfast, I was glad to be back. It had been a long day and I was looking forward to some alone time, a warm meal and some sleep. I walked into the dinning room where Alice was sitting and eating a meal by herself,

“Alice, what’s for dinner?” I sat at the table where she had served me the night before. She placed her fork and knife down; her plate filled with steak, mashed potatoes, green beans, beets, salad and a dinner roll. It looked fine.

“Mr. Spencer, I don’t serve gossipers and backbiters. You may sleep, but you must be out in the morning.”

“Ironic,” I muttered under my breath, then I looked to her, “Well, Alice, I guess we all have our limitations, don’t we?”

“Yes, we do, Mr. Spencer,” she paused, “Good night and good bye.”

Alice was lost in Wonderland, again. Will she never learn?

Yeah, I slept in. You better believe I slept in. I rose from bed at ten sharp, slapped my stuff together into the suitcase and made my shower. I was out by 10:30. I had one more trip to make in Riverside. It was a petty thing really, just one of those things you know you have to do. I looked her up in the phone book, the smallest phone book I’d ever seen. At her house, I waited for her to come out.

She came out at 11:13. I exited my car and walked up her sidewalk, while she walked down another sidewalk towards her driveway. She looked bitter, old (though middle-aged), mean. She looked downright heartless. It wasn’t real obvious to the casual face reader, but if you looked into the carvings of her face you could see. She had been angry most her life and still was—constantly she was. She noticed me coming her way and threw up a smile, the dullest I’d ever seen,

“Can I help you, sir?”

“I can live with the assault charge,” was all I said.

“What?” she asked, her face full of confusion.

I punched Barbra in the face, good and hard. She doubled back and fell into the garden beneath her porch; all the care she had taken with her garden was destroyed. And she bled. She instantly had blood all over her mouth from her nose and it kept coming.

Barbra cried.

How much was that punch worth? One thousand, three-hundred, twenty-seven dollars and sixty-five cents in medical bills. That’s how much that punch was worth. Was it worth it? Every penny. Though not nearly worth as much as the damage Joanne Mildred inflicted. One day Joanne Mildred decided she couldn’t take it anymore; she burned the daycare on a Saturday while no one was in it. She’s serving time now, hard time. That church, that sheriff, that town—they were hard on Joanne Mildred. It was later discovered by the 7th Day Adventists that Barbra had been playing games with the books and keeping a little extra for her own garden. The church let her go quietly, attempting to avoid scandal and potential reprimand. They did so quite gracefully. I hate Riverside.


THE END

Author's Note

Loosely based on actual events.